


you go on ahead for awhile

by orphan_account



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-08
Updated: 2010-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate went off and vanished, went off and dropped them all, and the worst thing is that Brad can't even blame him, can't blame anything he would do after that clusterfuck of assbackwards command and dead civilians.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you go on ahead for awhile

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Sunset Rubdown's "You Go On Ahead (Trumpet Trumpet)"

It's barely after they've got desert sand out of their hair, out of their drains, barely after they've gotten used to the taste of a beer again, a full night's sleep, that they're all congregating like it's the only normal thing in their lives, a bunch of dick-measuring, loud-mouthed marines congregating in Poke's backyard. Like it's normal for them all to be eating meat that isn't from a bag and sucking back beer and standing around without their hands all attached to their guns.

Brad tastes the day like a relief. There's only so much riding along the highways with half a death wish can strain out the McDonalds on every corner and the burnt taste of coffee and the feeling of a bed, foreign. The rest of it is settled, a little, with Poke playing host, with Rudy wearing shorts shorter than Brad knew they made for men, with Ray cornering Nate, who's got beer in his hand and a faint sunburn on his cheeks.

Brad wanders over to them, catches Ray proselytizing on the virtues of American pussy, and likely greatly exaggerating his own feats since getting back.

"Is this whiskey tango dicksuck bothering you, sir?" Brad asks

Ray looks hurt. "I would _never_," he says.

Nate raises an eyebrow at Brad then grins, the kind of grin he hadn't seen too much of in Iraq.

"He would never," Nate says, with a straight face, and Ray takes that as his cue to wrap an arm around Nate's shoulder, an action he aborts as soon as catches Brad's eye. Whatever Ray sees in his face just makes Ray shoot him a shit-eating grin. That shit-eating grin is not something Brad missed.

"I think Walt needs me," Ray says. "Because you know, I'm like a mentor to the kid now, a great role—"

"Ray," Brad says.

Ray, for someone very, very loud, is surprisingly good at vanishing.

"Brad," Nate says, cheeks flushed between the freckles painted in stark relief. He picks at the label on his beer. "Good to see you."

Nate went off and vanished, went off and dropped them all, and the worst thing is that Brad can't even blame him, can't blame anything he would do after that clusterfuck of assbackwards command and dead civilians.

"Sir," Brad says.

And Brad doesn't blame him, but there's really nothing he can say, not to Nate, who is still a marine, will always be a marine, but in a different way than they all are, who's a civilian now, and not one Brad can talk to about anything, especially not the obvious unspoken, surrounded by marines in the thick sun of the afternoon.

"We should probably talk about this," Nate says, low, and Brad could pretend he doesn't know what 'this' means, pretend Nate's pulling this out of his ass, but it was there in theater, and Brad thought it would fade with the adrenaline and the dust, but it didn't.

Brad scrubs the back of his neck and doesn't say anything, because if Nate decides it's best to talk about this in the corner of Poke's yard, with Ray caught between not so covertly watching them and annoying Walt on the other side of the yard, with some of the most observant men there are, well. Brad's gotten commands more stupid before, but not often.

"If I may object, sir," Brad says, finally.

"You may not," Nate says.

"All due respect, sir," Brad says. "You're not my superior anymore."

"That's not stopping you from calling me sir," Nate says.

"Well," Brad says. "Despite the fact you abandoned us for your pussy liberal--"

"Brad," Nate says, a hard edge in his voice, and Brad shuts his mouth like it's an order.

"I'm not going to fuck up your career," Nate says, like it's an answer to something, like Brad knows anything about what that means other than 'no'. And Brad's getting that loud and clear.

"Fine, sir," Brad says, then, because he can't help it, because the sun is bordering on oppressive and Ray's still watching and Nate said no without even consulting on whether Brad would think it was worth it (and he knows it won't be, but there's still a part of him that wants to try), because Brad's beer is sweating into his palm and leaving it slick, unable to grip at anything, because of all of that, Brad says "May I be dismissed?", a little sharper than intended.

"I'm not your superior anymore," Nate says, and there's something off about his tone, but that's not the only thing off in this afternoon, all of them safe and none of them happy about it. "You can do what you want."

What Brad wants to do, right now, is walk away. So he does.


End file.
